by Kate Bateman
“Well for God’s sake, keep your mask on,” he grumbled, ushering her up the stairs.
The rooms were crowded with both men and women, all instantly recognizable as belonging to a lower social stratum than Georgie usually encountered. Their laughter was louder, the ladies’ dresses too gaudy. Many of them wore rouge and lip paint.
And yet everyone seemed to be having far more fun than at a society party. The laughter was genuine. The buzz of conversation ebbed and flowed naturally; there was no whispering of malicious gossip or cruel tittering behind fans. The rhythmic slap of cards emanated from one room, along with the general hum of jovial conversation and the chink of glasses.
Wylde caught her wrist and steered her in that direction, weaving in and out of the throng. He stopped at a baize-topped gaming table just as another man rose to vacate his seat.
“Mind if I join you for a hand, gents?”
None of them objected, probably glad to have fresh money in the game. He sat and Georgie positioned herself behind him, hovering unobtrusively at his elbow. As the game got underway, she studied the other players at the table and with a horrified start recognized the player on Wylde’s left as one of her former suitors.
Thank goodness she was wearing a mask.
Sir Stanley Kenilworth had offered for her the year she’d come out. He had seemed genuinely surprised when she’d declined the privilege of settling his numerous debts in exchange for him “overlooking her city roots.”
He’d grown even fatter since then. His bloodshot eyes indicated a dedication to drinking, and his slack mouth and red jowls made her thankful she hadn’t accepted his suit. This would have been her money that he was drinking and gambling away.
She stifled a squeal of indignation when he leaned back and casually pinched her bottom.
“Who’s this little beauty, Wylde?” he slurred. “Lucky dog. You always do find the prettiest wenches.”
The old coot didn’t know who she was. His lecherous eyes ran over her, and Georgie dodged his hand and edged closer to Wylde. The dress was having the desired effect, but on the wrong man. She didn’t know whether to be insulted, alarmed, or perversely flattered.
Wylde smiled easily and dealt the cards with practiced skill. “Keep your hands off, Kenilworth. I don’t share.”
His tone was pleasant enough, but there was an underlying thread of steel the other man didn’t miss. Sir Stanley raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “No offense, old man. Just saying, she’s a pretty bit o’ muslin.”
Wylde’s lips twitched. “She is. But trust me, you can’t afford her.”
Another man at the table laughed. “Well, I certainly can’t. You’ve cost me a pretty penny this month, Wylde. I lost a pony when you bested Millington in that horse race to Brighton. I bet you’d never make it in under three hours.”
Wylde shrugged. “What can I say? I ride as well as I shoot.”
Georgie raised her brows. So that was how he augmented his meagre earnings from Bow Street; he took part in games of skill. The man was a scandalous disgrace, permanently without funds, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned. She envied his assurance, that mantle of confidence honed by generations of aristocratic forebears.
Genteel poverty like his was quite commonplace amongst the ton. The entire monetary system ran on promises and debts, unpaid bills and gambling IOUs. She’d bet everyone in this room owed something to someone. Except for her.
She accepted a glass of wine and took the opportunity to study the rest of the room as Wylde played. She identified their host, O’Meara, moving smoothly between his guests. He seemed genial enough, with dark curly hair styled à la Brutus and rather hooded eyes. When he reached their table, he greeted the men and paid her scant attention; his gaze slid over her and dismissed her as mere ornamentation. Good.
To emphasize her role as Wylde’s consort, she casually rested her hand on his shoulder. His muscles tensed under her fingertips, but after the slightest pause, he turned back to the small pile of winnings in front of him and threw down a card. Seized by a wicked impulse, Georgie trailed her fingers up toward his neck and toyed with the lock of hair that curled behind his ear.
He half turned his head as if to say something to her, then apparently decided against it.
She glanced at his cards over his shoulder and bit back a frustrated groan. Why had he discarded that queen? Really, he was making the oddest decisions. With her head for numbers, she’d always found calculating the odds of cards relatively easy, but she doubted Wylde would appreciate her interference in this instance.
Her fingers stroked the thick hair at his nape, just above his cravat, and her heart pounded at the illicit thrill of it. Wylde cleared his throat, repositioned himself in his chair, and threw down a ten, ruining any chance he might have had of winning the hand.
Georgie stifled a giggle. Was she distracting him? The idea was delightful.
The hand finished, and he stood and gathered his paltry winnings. “Excuse me, gents, but I’ve ignored my lady long enough. I do believe she’d appreciate a tour of the house.”
This was met with knowing ribald laughter. “Oh, aye. I hear the doctor’s billiard table’s very sturdy,” Kenilworth snickered. “Well worth a detour.”
Georgie flushed beneath her mask. They all thought Wylde was taking her off somewhere for … nefarious purposes.
If only.
She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his ridiculous offer to introduce her to physical pleasure. The idea had taken root, a wicked, intriguing possibility. Had he been serious? What would he have done if she’d actually taken him up on it?
His cheek brushed hers as he leaned over to whisper in her ear. “They’ll be imagining us in flagrante delicto in less than five minutes. Come on.” He looked at her and away, leaving an instant’s burn in his wake. As he ushered her out of the room, Georgie tried to banish the hot, sinful images he’d conjured.
They dodged another couple sneaking upstairs and a servant carrying a swaying tray of glasses. Wylde sent her a casual, intimate smile over his shoulder that perfectly communicated his delight in the unholy thrill of risk-taking. His eyes were glowing with excitement. Georgie’s matching sense of elation left her almost breathless.
This was what made this man so dangerously attractive. When he called on someone to join him on an adventure, he was well-nigh irresistible.
Chapter 20.
Benedict tried to still his racing heart as he ushered Georgie down the corridor, into O’Meara’s library, and closed the door behind them with a click.
The woman was driving him insane. He hadn’t taken a decent breath since he’d seen her in that fever-dream of a dress. Its color emphasized the smooth skin of her bare shoulders and made him want to kiss the indent at the front of her throat, where her collarbones met. The dangerously low-cut bodice invited him to cup the lush mounds of her breasts, to press his face to them.
And if the dress hadn’t been enough, while he’d been trying to concentrate on piquet, the little wretch had started fondling him. Her light, teasing touches had produced a flash of heat on his neck and an instant stiffening between his legs.
He had no idea what hand he’d played; his complete attention had been on her fingers in his hair. He imagined her closing her fists, gripping his hair as he thrust into her, and his hands trembled. The scent of her, an intriguing mix of perfume and skin that was uniquely hers, teased his senses, so delicious he wanted to lick her. Everywhere. He felt befuddled.
He needed to concentrate, to look for evidence. Not throw her up onto O’Meara’s leather-topped writing desk. With a decided effort, he strode over to the desk in question and produced his pocket knife from his waistcoat. The lock to the top drawer yielded to its pressure with only the slightest splintering of wood, and he exhaled in satisfaction. “Let’s see what the good doctor is hiding.”
He rifled through the drawers, discarding most items until he came to a roll of large papers tied with a
slim blue ribbon. The size alone indicated they were maps or plans of some sort. He pulled down one corner, took a brief glance, and decided they merited a closer look. He glanced over at Georgie, who’d made her way over to one of the walls of books, and beckoned her forward. As soon as she got close, he dropped to his knees and took hold of the hem of her skirts.
She sucked in a scandalized breath. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t very well walk out of here with these stuffed in my jacket, can I? We’ll have to hide them in your skirts.”
She made a little squeaking sound, but he’d already exposed her stockinged shin. He inhaled a waft of warm, perfumed skin that made his head swim and caught a tantalizing glimpse of gartered knee before she pushed her skirts down with her hands.
“Stop being such a prude,” he scolded.
She gave huff of irritation, or perhaps embarrassment. “Get off! I’ll do it.”
He sat back on his heels and reluctantly handed her the roll of papers. She turned her back to him and hiked up her skirts, using the strings from her inner hanging pocket to secure the scroll. She let the fabric fall with a swish, then turned and took a few experimental steps. The roll rustled almost imperceptibly as it banged against her thigh, but the folds of her skirt hid its presence very well.
“There. I—”
Voices in the hall made them both freeze. The doorknob rattled. He hadn’t locked it. Before she could protest, he grabbed her upper arms, pushed her back against the nearest bookshelf, and smothered her “oomph” of surprise with his mouth.
* * *
In some dim recess of her mind Georgie realized Wylde was only kissing her to distract from their true purpose in the library, but as his lips molded to hers, she could barely think. Panic at the thought of discovery heightened her sense of urgency, and with a little moan she returned his embrace with desperate fervor.
Somewhere near the door, she heard an embarrassed laugh—“Oh! sorry, old man, didn’t mean to interrupt”—but Wylde’s tongue delved into her mouth, hot as sin, and thinking became too much.
With the mask on, all she could feel was his lips on hers, the slight, thrilling rasp of his stubble chafing against her jaw. Two mouths pressing together in the darkness. His body was hard, his weight pinning her effortlessly against the shelves, and she writhed against him shamelessly, wanting more. His hands came up to cup her face, then slid down her throat and over her breasts, and Georgie bit back a gasp of shock. Her nipples peaked, and her breasts seemed to swell into his hands.
He moved lower, his lips leaving a trail of fire down the side of her neck and across her collarbone, and Georgie tilted her head, wordlessly begging him to continue. She couldn’t stop her hands from straying over his body, over wool and linen, down the front of his chest, then around his waist and under his jacket. Her seeking fingers slipped beneath his waistcoat and shirt and then she was touching the hot, bare flesh of his back. His muscles leapt and flexed beneath her palm.
He gave a heartfelt groan. “This dress, woman, God, I—” He seemed incapable of finishing the thought. His hot breath fanned the swell of her breast just above the neckline of her dress, and Georgie’s knees almost buckled as his tongue flicked out and tasted her skin. Like in a whirlpool at sea, she let herself be dragged down, beyond hope of rescue, helpless against the undertow.
The abrupt crash of shattering glass brought the world back into focus with a sharp, unpleasant jolt. Someone had dropped something down the hall.
Cool air rushed into the space between them as Wylde stepped back abruptly. Georgie sucked in a breath, glad of the bookcase to support her rubbery legs. Her lips throbbed, her breasts felt achy and full, and her heart was thudding painfully against her ribs.
He retreated another step, tugging at the bottom of his waistcoat to straighten it. His hair was rumpled from where she’d run her fingers through it.
He cleared his throat. “Right then. Good job.” His gaze dropped to her chest, which was still rising and falling in agitation, and he shook his head as if to clear it. “Excellent distraction, Mrs. Wylde. Top notch. Now, let’s get out of here.”
Georgie pushed off from the bookcase and tried to match his insouciant manner as she followed him back out into the hall.
The fortuitous broken decanter in the card room had diverted everyone’s attention. It was an easy enough matter for them to gather their things and take their leave. Wylde hailed a cab, one with a closed roof, and handed her inside.
She could barely see him in the dim interior. He was a shadowed form on the opposite seat, but his masculine presence filled the space, impossible to ignore. She could hear his breathing, slow and steady, totally in control, as if the passion that had flared between them only minutes before had never existed.
The memory of her enthusiastic response made her cheeks burn. His kiss had just been part of the game. It meant nothing to him. Maybe he’d thought to give the innocent little virgin a bit of excitement to round off the evening.
And yet, he’d kissed her for far longer than necessary.
Glad of the concealing darkness, Georgie edged forward on the seat, tugged up her skirts, and unfastened the rolled papers. The wash of cool air on her upper legs made her acutely aware that she was exposing herself. She thrust papers in his general direction. “Here.”
His hand closed over hers unerringly. God, how much could he see in the dark? She hurriedly fluffed her skirts back down—and was sure she heard him chuckle. The coach slowed as it joined the back of the queue at the Westons’.
“Are you coming in?” she asked.
“No. I want to take a look at our ill-gotten gains.”
She quashed a wave of frustration. She deserved a look at those papers too. But she could hardly demand that he take her back to his lodgings. She’d been absent long enough. “I want to know what’s in them.”
“I’ll call on you soon.”
The door swung open, and the coachman let down the step. Wylde, half-lit by the sudden shaft of illumination, took her hand and kissed her knuckles. Her heart gave a funny little thump.
“Thank you for your help tonight,” he said huskily.
“My pleasure,” she breathed.
It had been her pleasure, she realized wryly. Illicit. Exciting. Fun. Exactly the type of adventure she’d always dreamed of. Being married to Benedict Wylde was turning out to be far more interesting than she’d ever envisaged.
She found her mother by the Westons’ refreshments table.
“Ah, there you are, Georgiana. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Georgie mumbled something about needing to see to her dress. Her mother raised her brows as she got a good look at the gown, and Georgie braced herself for a scold, but to her amazement her mother tilted her head and smiled.
“Is that a new dress? I must say, that color suits you very well. Madame Cerise has excelled herself. But you do look a little flushed. I hope you haven’t been overexerting yourself?”
It was all Georgie could do to stifle a snort. Kissing Wylde had been exertion of the sweetest, most dangerous kind. And it was one exercise she wouldn’t mind repeating on a regular basis.
Chapter 21.
Georgie spent the following morning in a frenzy of anticipation. She declined to accompany her mother and sister to Bond Street, certain that if she went out shopping, she would miss Wylde.
They were partners in crime now. Last night’s events had shifted their relationship. But had she merely imagined the flash of newfound respect in his eyes? Were they becoming friends?
She almost jumped out of her seat when the front knocker banged, and footsteps sounded on the stairs. But it wasn’t Wylde who entered the drawing room. It was Josiah.
“Cousin.”
Georgie sent him a thin smile of welcome in front of the maid, but as soon as Tilly left, she allowed even the pretense of civility to drop. She glared at him. “What are you doing here, Josiah? I can’t imagine why you think you’d be wel
come after what you did to me at Vauxhall.”
His answering smile was as fake as her own. His obvious lack of remorse was infuriating. “Tilly informs me that your mother and sister are out shopping. That’s good. It’s you I wanted to see.” His oily voice matched his greasy hair.
Georgie eyed him dispassionately. He wasn’t an unattractive man, at least not physically, but the dark rings under his eyes and the yellow tinge to his skin made him look far from his best. She wondered if he’d been drinking or frequenting the numerous opium dens that abounded in the city. He certainly looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. Her lip curled in distaste. “What do you want?”
He eased back into a chair with a smile that chilled her to the bone. “Simply put, money.”
She gave an incredulous laugh. “And you think I’m going to give it to you? Have you taken leave of your senses? I wouldn’t throw a bucket of water on you if you were on fire.”
His smug expression didn’t waver. “Oh, I think you will, Georgie. To protect the family’s reputation. Because let me tell you, I’m up to my ears in debt. Quite drowning in the River Tick, as they say.” He gave a hapless shrug, as if none of that were his fault. “I have moneylenders hounding me day and night—quite unpleasant fellows some of ’em—and debts I can’t repay. If I don’t settle them soon, I don’t doubt I’ll be challenged to a duel or thrown into debtor’s prison.” His expression grew crafty. “And we can’t have the family name dragged through the mud, can we? Not while Juliet’s still trying to land herself a title.”
Georgie gritted her teeth and cursed his uncanny ability to hone in on the very things she cared about most. His roving gaze felt like an assault and raised goose bumps on her arms. It was nothing like the pleasant, warming sensation she felt when Wylde looked at her.
He uncrossed his legs and stood. “You’re going to write me a bank draft, Georgie. For five hundred pounds. Because if you don’t, I’m going to tell everyone in the ton you’re married to a sailor.”